


The crooked kind

by Savium



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Threats of Violence, Violence, and pretty much just some predictions mixed with wishful thinking, implied suicidal thoughts, spoilers if you haven't seen the trailer (is there really anyone who hasn't seen it and if so why)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savium/pseuds/Savium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of her wishes she could have done this under the veil of night; that she could’ve had more time to plan everything, draw every step, every gruesome detail of it.<br/>But a bigger part wishes for nothing more than to get this done with. Kill Lexa. Get away from here.</p>
<p>For the first time since she’s set foot on the ground, what she wants to do and what she needs to do seem to be one and the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The crooked kind

Getting to the commander’s quarters isn’t as difficult as Clarke thought it would be.   
Once she enters the towering building she only has to avoid the few soldiers standing guard at each floor, and make herself go unnoticed, a thing she’d become good at in the last three months as a runaway.

It doesn’t hit her until she’s in front of the door, that she’s just a few steps away from what she’s looking for. And she suddenly feels unprepared for it. She doesn’t have a weapon, no plan in the eventuality that there might be a guard inside the room with her, or anyone really.  
But this is the only chance she has and she _needs_ to find a way to do this.

_Just one more kill_ , she thinks, _just this last time_.

She can do it, Clarke knows this, but when she slowly pushes the door open, her hand shakes at the thought of what awaits her.

The faint noise of the busy streets can be heard even from this up high, and Lexa is there, back turned to the door, bathed in the light filtering through the tall windows; she’s looking through them and under, to the people of Polis, and wears her shoulderguard and light armor, but from this angle it’s not clear if she’s donning any face paint on her.

Still, Clarke is mesmerized. It feels like an upside kind of deja-vù; she knows this is the same person that has left her alone outside the mountain, the back she faces now an echo of the last image she has of her.  
And yet it feels like someone else.

_It’s this place_ , she tells herself.

Everything in Polis is different, the air, the people, the way it makes you feel. For once Clarke can close her eyes and hear no deafening silence after battle cries; there’s no mud on her boots; her breath doesn’t condensate in short white puffs that make her feel like freezing despite the hot, angry blood flowing through her veins.

When Lexa finally turns to face her the sound that has disrupted her, she isn’t bloodied, there’s no paint streaming down her cheeks, but she is there, unmistakably her.  
And when they lock eyes, there is no surprise in them. 

Clarke wonders how long she’s been expecting her. Images of Lexa flood her mind: motionless and expressionless still as she gets word of the Mountain’s fall, of what Clarke has done; standing there, back turned to the world and waiting. Just waiting.  
All the demons that have been haunting Clarke come back clawing at her chest from inside out. A sickening feeling starts to slither in her stomach and she has to tear her eyes from the commander’s stoic face.

She glances around the room; a knife lies on a table not far from her. In an instant a plan is formed in the back of her mind, and Clarke feels steadier on her feet, if for just a few seconds.

Lexa has been waiting for her, this is obvious, but beside that, she hasn’t done anything else Clarke expected her to.

_Makes it easier for me_ , she thinks.

Lexa stays still and looks at Clarke like she’s seen a ghost, but any trace of fear is absent. It’s a dark type of wonder painted on her face, as if Clarke’s spirit had visited her before. Clarke recalls how the memories of the commander had been worse than a ghost, an ever growing shadow plaguing the few moments of clarity, filling her with anger and sadness; shocks of black poison in her green eyes.

Part of her wishes she could have done this under the veil of night; that she could’ve had more time to plan everything, draw every step, every gruesome detail of it.  
But a bigger part wishes for nothing more than to get this done with. Kill Lexa. Get away from here.

For the first time since she’s set foot on the ground, what she wants to do and what she needs to do seem to be one and the same.

Clarke’s voice is low and firm when she says, “I thought you would’ve been more prepared for this.”

Lexa blinks slowly, giving no other sign that she’s heard her.

“Or did you really think I was going to come here to.. what, exactly?” she asks, and it’s as if sand fills her mouth, “Make peace? Beg for a truce, after you had me captured?”

Lexa parts her lips and Clarke wishes she could tear her throat out, just so she wouldn’t have to hear her voice.

“After everything _you’ve done_?” she presses, hatred rolling off her tongue.

Lexa does yet another thing she didn’t expect and starts to take slow, steady steps towards her.  
Clarke freezes and for a moment she’s lost in the way the commander carries herself, with sure and purposeful strides, like she’s always in control.  
But Clarke knows better; knows that losing her sanity is always just a few steps away. She sees it in Lexa’s quivering breaths and her sad gaze.  
And she knows now is the time to act.

Swiftly, she turns and grabs the knife with her left hand. In less than a second she’s taken hold of Lexa by her shoulder and pressed the blade against her throat.  
She has the upper hand now; the satisfying feeling of having put Lexa over a barrel invading her, not unlike that day before the mountain.

Clarke remembers tearful eyes and trembling lips, the most vulnerable she’d ever seen her.

Except this time Lexa doesn’t step back, recoiling like a cornered animal. Instead, she moves further into Clarke’s space, almost making it disappear; she presses into the knife, hard enough to leave an angry pink line on the supple flesh -Clarke sees red and black and wishes to see a far more horrible scar on that same skin.

Clarke is taken aback for only an instant, shifted on her axis, as if pulled by Lexa’s gravity. And she doesn’t want to notice the sadness in it, the concern and the _relief_. She doesn’t want to see the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, that make her acknowledge her own, nor the trembling lips inches away from her own -even when she’s in control, Lexa can always make her falter.

“Clarke.” it’s but a whisper, said in the same way Lexa always does, just as she did at the mountain, and Clarke feels it reverberate in her bones.  
Her anger and pain surge again from deep within her chest, and she puts them in her shaking hands to shove as hard as she can.  
All Lexa does it let out a pained breath.

In the back of her mind  she asks herself why Lexa hasn’t tried to defend herself yet, to fight back.

_Pathetic_.  
  
She thought the great commander would have been harder to kill, and she’s almost disappointed by her lack of fight.

Kill. This is the pact. This is her role in the plan offered to her by her former jailer: kill Lexa and spark a revolution she has no part in; escape in the middle of the chaos and go back to her people.  
There’s still something off in all of this, that missing piece that makes all the other fit together. Something that gives Clarke pause, making fear and doubt dangerously close to overcoming her.

But right now none of that matters. Right now this is just the means to an end; the perfect way to see that Lexa pays for what she’s done.

_Jus drain, jus daun_.

And Clarke is death now, isn’t she? She feasts on corpses and toasts with blood.

Without taking her eyes from the knife, she says, “Haven't you heard? It's wanheda now.”

Lexa stays silent and Clarke doesn’t know why she expects an answer; why she wants any type of reaction from her.  
She feels the movement of the other girl’s throat as she swallows and that’s enough to make her alert of their proximity; of the fact that she still has her hand at the nape of Lexa’s neck, broken nails digging into flesh where it meets her shoulder, and that Lexa hasn't even tried to defend herself yet.

Nothing makes sense.

Has her new name haunted Lexa as it haunts her?  
Did her shadow over the mountain make her cower in terror and fear?  
(Lexa’s eyes shine with something Clarke can’t understand)

In hope?

Nothing makes sense.

As Clarke’s gaze shifts back up to glassy green, she decides to be petty and cruel and make this last as long and be as painful as she can -for her or for Lexa she doesn't know.  
She tries as best as she can to school her face in a way that shows her hatred more than her pain and gives another strong shove, but this time she doesn't control the blade as well as before. The littlest cut appears on Lexa’s neck, a drop of blood escaping it. It’s a deep, deep red, but it's not as satisfying as she thought it'd be.

Though the pain does have an effect on Lexa, since a long, shaky breath breaks free from her parted lips. She swallows back a flinch.

“You're alive.” it’s not a question, but a statement, tinged with wonder and that same thing in Lexa’s eyes that Clarke can’t quite place.

Her answer comes fast and rough through gritted teeth, “Not thanks to you.”

It's such a stupid thing, really. Because Clarke doesn't _feel_ alive. She's felt like a ghost since she stepped out of the mountain, numb and drained as if she’d been bled out. She hasn't felt alive in months.  
Not until now.  
But it’s the painful kind. It feels like being thrown in a river after a long sleep, and struggling to the surface as the water already tries to bring her down, invading her lungs and her thoughts. 

Being this close to Lexa now, feels like breathing after a long time under frozen water; the same air that gives her life sets a fire in all of her.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.” Clarke asks without thought.

“You know what my death would mean for the clans, Clarke.” it’s a half-hearted attempt at being reasonable, at talking like she should, finding a common ground of understanding.  
And Clarke knows she shouldn’t feel surprised by it, but this is not the answer she wants. She feels the urge to laugh or scoff, or both. Instead, she presses in again with the blade.

She’s stopped thinking like a leader the second after she pulled that lever.

“Give me _one_ reason why I shouldn't slit your throat right now.”

Lexa seems to go back to staying infuriatingly quiet, then-

“I don't have one.” she says it like she's sharing a secret she’s waited too long to reveal. It strokes at Clarke’s demons and coats her heart like oil.

“You left me. You left my people to die, after all we’d done to fight the mountain, after we'd found a way to take back the reapers, after we’d found a way to open that damned door.”

“I did what had to be done to save my people.”

“I was trying to save my people too, Lexa! And when you left us and _used_ us as stock, I had to do terrible things to save them.” an unmistakable expression of pain appears on Lexa’s features then.

“But you _saved them_.” Clarke shakes her head, exasperated. Her eyes burn from the tears she’s trying to keep from falling.

“You said you didn't have reasons, why are you defending yourself!” another shove.

“I am _not_. I already told you, Clarke, I made that decision with my head not m-”

“You left me, Lexa!” Clarke can't hold her tears in anymore. “You left _me_.” She pushes out the last word along with a sob. And it’s like a floodgate of emotions has opened.

She’s tried to keep it back; she has tried not to say that what haunted her night and day wasn’t the ghost of the commander. It was Lexa.  
Just _Lexa_.  
Clarke has killed. She’s killed and now the eyes of her innocent victims won’t stop looking at her from her own people’s faces.  
She doesn’t know who she is anymore, or if that person deserves to live, to be happy.  
The only thing that’s clear -the sole real thing- is that the only other person Clarke knows feels the same way she does right now, has turned her back on her.

“I know.” she looks too small then, too young to have seen so much pain; too young to have caused has much herself.  
“I _know._ ” she repeats, a little stronger, trying and failing to sound less broken. But there's finality in her tone, an understanding that encompasses everything she’s feeling. 

And Clarke hates it. She hates this hopelessness and cold of knowing exactly what haunts her, and never being able to truly evade it.  
She hates _her_ , because Lexa has always been able to understand before Clarke had even understood herself.

“But you are alive, Clarke.” comes the strainful whisper, “You are _alive_.”  
Tears roll down her cheeks, and she feels them like waves that hit her with a force greater than she can withstand.  
“I _know_ what you had to do to survive the mountain, and I hate myself because I'm glad. I’m glad you did those terrible things. I know the burden you carry because of them, and I'd rather you have it than having you dead. I hate-” her voice falters and Clarke with it -too much is rushing out, too fast.

“Everyone I’ve ever loved has _died because of me_.” Her hand comes up to cover Clarke's own around the knife, thumb stroking her bruised knuckles. It makes Clarke shiver; makes her want to run away.

“Everyone but you.” Lexa’s eyes pierce into Clarke’s, echoing old words.

_Not everyone. Not you._

“If there's anyone who has the right to take my life, it’s you, Clarke.”

It’s not an empty promise. Clarke knows she’s not trying to deceive her. This is the same Lexa of that day in her tent; the same Lexa in front of ashes and smoke in TonDC; the same Lexa trapped with her in a cage with death trying to break through the door.

She doesn’t have to press her hand to Lexa’s neck to feel her heart accelerate as she continues, “But I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you here, if you’ll let me.”

Clarke feels the air leave her chest and she forgets how she’s supposed to bring it back in.  
Lexa is a flooded river and Clarke is drowning over and over and over..

She doesn't know what part of her replies then, “Who’s the hypocrite now?”

Lexa blinks in surprise but doesn't look away, while Clarke’s gaze shifts from Lexa’s tear-stained face to the blade.

“I _really_ want to kill you.”

“Go on, then.”

Clarke feels her blood churn in her veins; feels the weight of the blade in her fist and the weight of her decision in her heart. She’s so close to granting her wish -how many times has Lexa wished for her death?

It'd be so easy now..

Lexa tightens her grip on Clarke’s hand, but doesn’t make a move to pull her away from her neck, where a drop of blood has left a short, crimson trail; it’s almost like she’s trying to support it, to give her the steadiness necessary to cut. 

Clarke is torn between wanting to laugh and scream and cry.  
Suddenly she pulls their joined hands away from Lexa’s throat. The knife clanks on the floor between them and Clarke’s other hand shifts on her neck to press on her windpipe.

“I don’t need your protection.” she spits out, “I don’t need your help to kill you.” her grip tightens, “And I don’t need your permission.”

Lexa starts to visibly struggle to breathe, hooking a hand around her forearm, but doesn’t look away. Tearful eyes shift rapidly between desperate ones.

She finally holds Lexa’s life in her hands and a pang of sad hopefulness invades her, but soon vanishes.  Clarke is left wondering if making Lexa just another ghost among the hundreds that already accompany her would make her feel better. Would it make her ears void of the screams of the dying? Would it make her breathe again without feeling a thousand knives through her chest?  
Would it ease her never ending grief?

They call her wanheda, but she nothing is really under her control.

Lexa stays still, and waits -and waits and waits as Clarke threatens to extinguish her forever- because she's just like her.  
Death has circled both their necks with golden chains that burn and weigh with every decision, every day spent juggling with the lives of others.  
Lexa knows her. She knows the part of her she wishes she could forget.

And she doesn't look away.

Clarke tightens her hold again, hard; she feels the frantic beat of Lexa’s heart thrum under her fingers.

_Just a bit more._

But her mind trembles, and her hand with it. Because she knows that she could.. and yet she can’t.

She loosens her grip, slowly, until Lexa starts to breathe again, and watches transfixed as she keeps looking at her, desperate and pleading as if Clarke still had a knife at her neck; even as she gulps in the recycled air between them with difficulty.

She looks into Lexa’s eyes and feels like she too can breathe again. And for just a moment it doesn’t hurt as much as before.

For a moment nothing else exists but the two of them. No war, no sides to be taken, no responsibilities.  
No faults.

In the back of her mind Clarke realizes she still has her wrist in an iron grip.

_Keep breathing_ , she thinks.

She slides her fingers to clasp at Lexa’s.

_Breathe_.

They stand there together for a few heartbeats that feel much longer and then- Lexa calls her name and reality crashes back into her.

Clarke has blood on her hand but no body to add to her count. And she breathes, and breathes, and breathes..

She doesn’t walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic in 5 years that I publish, and the absolute first in english. All mistakes are mine.  
> I just needed to get this off my chest because the wait for season3 is slowly but steadily killing me. the trailer was too much.


End file.
